Brussels Sprouts

Brussels sprouts? How can she blog about brussels sprouts?

Most of the family knows this story. So read along and let me know if I'm embellishing over time. Or skip off and clean the bathroom. Your choice.

Dad trained me to not like brussels sprouts. That was not his goal. I was about fifth grade, I think, and the vegetable for dinner one night was B.S. (My apologies if the initials offend you, but I don't feel they deserve the energy it takes to spell them out every time.) The rule was, you have to try everything at dinner.

I tried, but I gagged on the little buggers. Literally, could not chew and swallow one little B.S. Dad decreed, "You can go after you try one, but until you do, we're staying right here." My brothers were excused, Mom was working around us to clean up, and it was showdown time.

Really, I tried. I brought home good grades, I did what I could to please my folks. But those weird green things? And how do you describe that taste? Maybe it was just that smell, where your brain says, "Whoa, kiddo, something with that smell was not designed to be eaten and enjoyed."

And we sat.

And Dad fell asleep at the table.

Mom said I could go.